Amadeus's Legacy
by Velociraptor256
Summary: The spirit of Amadeus Arkham goes about his work.


_Note: This story contains spoilers for the "Chronicles of Arkham" side-quest – specifically, the identity of the Spirit of Amadeus Arkham. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Batman: Arkham Asylum or any of the characters depicted therein._

**Amadeus's Legacy**

Clouds covered the sky over Arkham Asylum, hiding the moon and stars from view. The air was cold, yet the man who called himself the spirit of Amadeus Arkham did not shiver as he strode across the grounds. He would not let himself be bothered by the cold; he was more than just a man.

Tonight was another night for him to continue his work, to take another step towards his ultimate goal. It was a long and painful process, as he had always known it would be when he first set out, but each bit of filth destroyed was one less cancerous cell infecting the asylum to which he had dedicated himself. Tonight, he was heading for the Intensive Treatment building; the Penitentiary contained more desirable targets, but it was more heavily guarded, and he couldn't afford to go down too often or people would get suspicious. He would be no good to anyone locked away in his own asylum, as poor Amadeus had been.

He remembered how he had found the first of Amadeus's memoirs, hidden away inside the Arkham Mansion close to his own office. He had thought at first that it must have been left by the Riddler; in fact, he had gone down to Nygma's cell and sternly spoken to him about graffitiing asylum property. But later, the chance discovery of another note made him realize who the true writer was, and privately marvel at the fact that these writings had survived untouched in the asylum all these years. Tracking them down became quite a distraction for him; the private visions into Amadeus's troubled mind fascinated him, and he became more and more determined to piece together the story, to truly understand the man who had once been in his role.

It was then that he had heard the voice of the spirit. He never thought to connect it with his psychiatric diagnosis some years before, which by then was nothing more than a memory banished to the back of his mind. The spirit had whispered to him, and it wasn't long before he had realized that the voice he could hear was that of Amadeus himself. He had been waiting for years, the spirit said, waiting for someone who could prove himself worthy, someone who could understand the revelation that Amadeus's experience had finally led to – namely, that all the treatments and academic theories were ultimately pointless, and that the only real solution was annihilation.

It had all made perfect sense. After all, in spite of what everyone believed, the Batman's efforts were providing no real cure for the evil that was eating away at Gotham City; all he did was deliver the perpetrators to Arkham, and then just wait for them to escape and start the cycle anew. The Batman could never end the madness, the spirit had said, for he did not truly have the will, and he was fooling himself to believe that he was making a difference.

But the spirit knew the real path to Gotham's salvation. And his host was ready and willing.

He was now a dedicated saviour for the whole city...and yet nobody could know. The spirit was quick to explain that they would not understand until he had completed his task and they could see the results. No, let them be distracted by that wholly inadequate Batman for now, he thought.

What he loved most was the strength that the spirit gave him. Before, he had always had to suppress a shiver of fear when facing the patients: when listening to the malevolent threats of the Joker or the sinister ruminations of the Scarecrow, he knew they would not hesitate to strike him down if given the chance, and he never confronted them without a few armed guards to back him up. But once the spirit was in control, fear was unknown to him. There was only intent – intent to complete his mission.

Surely Amadeus must have planned all this. As the founder sat alone in his cell, helpless to do anything more to work against the evil within the asylum that he had built, had he taken action to ensure that his soul remained on earth after death, ready to select a host to continue his imperative work? Surely it must be so.

As the spirit strode through the sterile corridors of Intensive Treatment, his footsteps echoing against the floor, he found himself thinking about how unfamiliar much of the asylum would be to Amadeus now. Certainly this building, filled with computer screens and state-of-the-art security gates, would be remarkable to him; he would marvel at how his creation had grown and developed over the years, in spite of the constant infection that plagued it.

Finally, he found the perfect opportunity: a holding cell containing a young man, skinny and emaciated, sitting on the floor, staring at the ceiling and muttering unintelligibly to himself. Once he had momentarily turned off the nearest security camera, the spirit of Arkham entered the entrance code, and stepped inside the cell. The man did nothing to acknowledge his presence, but simply continued muttering.

Presumably he was still in the process of receiving full treatment. Little did he realize that only now was appropriate treatment coming, the spirit mused, as his hands closed around the patient's throat.

The poor man struggled, but was too weak and disoriented to put up a proper fight. In the morning, the body would be discovered, and it would appear as if the man had strangled himself with his sheets.

A small part of the terrible cancer that threatened to destroy his beloved Gotham, but a part of it nonetheless.

The spirit swiftly left the building, heading straight for the Arkham Mansion. Soon he was in the vast expanse of Arkham East, the ominous silhouette of the mansion standing before him.

There was just one more thing to do first.

In a dark corner, out of sight of any lights that might give him away, he crouched down, discarded his jacket, produced a knife, and began to carve letters into the wall. It had been only appropriate that he do this, just as Amadeus had. After all, he was continuing the doctor's legacy with his work; it was only appropriate that he document his actions and thoughts in the same way – that his own memoirs join Amadeus's secret collection. Perhaps one day, his own writings might be read by another potential host, who would continue the work when he himself was gone.

With a short message forever engraved into the body of the asylum, hidden from the guards behind some plants, the spirit's work was done for one night. Now, as he strode toward the mansion entrance, it was time for him to rest…

Quincy Sharp woke up in his office with a start. He sat confused in his chair for a moment, unable to remember exactly what he had been doing for the past hour. He noticed dirt on his shoes, and a little on his cuffs. He vaguely remembered walking through Arkham North…

Yes, that was it. He must have taken a stroll, gotten some fresh air, and then just dropped off in his office. He was getting on in years, after all; perfectly natural. In fact, he really should be getting home now. The papers on his desk could wait until morning. He'd need to be looking smart and energized for Bruce Wayne's visit tomorrow.

_A good day's work_, he reflected as he walked to his car.


End file.
